


I Can Carry You

by toyhto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, Still dubious though, with a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29080872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: “I need you to do it for me,” Sherlock said.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 131





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's a new virus. Sherlock catches it.
> 
> So, this is Fuck or Die fic, definitely dubious consent, approach with caution (although I have to say, I was once again trying to write a dark story and it got out of my hands and got very soppy in the end). Also trigger warning for self-harm/suicidal thoughts used in a metaphor-like way to express the distress, no one is actually suicidal or self-harming or considering either of these.
> 
> You can say hi to me [on tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)!

”It’s okay,” he told Sherlock when it was over.  His hands were shaking. They shouldn’t have been. He was a goddamn soldier, he was well able to do whatever had to be done with steady hands. This shouldn’t have been any different.  
  
He clenched and unclenched his fists and then reached to touch Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock flinched, blinking at him. He pulled his hand back and stumbled onto his feet, sat down on the edge of the sofa, rested his elbows against his knees and breathed in and out. He wasn’t going to start panicking about it now, not when… when there was nothing to be done, and he was a soldier, a fucking _soldier_ , and this wasn’t about him at all, this was about Sherlock, who was still lying on his side on the floor, where he had settled after John had… had finished.  
  
John cleared his throat. He was a soldier and a doctor and he didn’t have a fucking clue what to do. “Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t answer.  
  
“It’s fine,” John said. It really wasn’t, and he had a nagging feeling that talking only made it less fine. “You’re fine. You’re alright. You did well. Not that it’s a… it’s not a fucking _performance,_ I know that, and you know that, I just… Can I do anything?” As if he hadn’t done enough already.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. He sounded almost like himself, only a little… muffled. “I’m fine, John.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said, “yes, of course you are. Maybe… do you want me to… I was careful, I don’t think anything… but I could check you, if you like –“  
  
Sherlock rolled onto his back. He looked like he was trying to breathe and didn’t remember how. “No.”  
  
“No,” John repeated, “no, of course not. Sorry, I… I’ll just…” He stood up. He should go. He should give Sherlock a moment. He should go to the bathroom and wash his hands and look himself in the eyes through the mirror and ask himself why the fuck he hadn’t shot himself in the head yet. “Sorry,” he said and closed his zipper.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He went back to the sitting room after he had rubbed his hands clean with soap and washed his face and then spent five minutes sitting on the closed toilet seat telling himself there was no point in crying. He had thought about taking a shower but then decided against it. It was completely unfair to lock himself in here when Sherlock might want to… when it was Sherlock who probably wanted a shower and a place to lock himself into.  
  
But Sherlock was still in the living room. John stopped at the doorway and held his breath. Sherlock was on the floor but at least he was sitting now, leaning his back against the sofa, looking… drunk, or high, probably. Or in shock. He had put his pants and trousers back on.  
  
“Hey,” John said, wanting to look away. “You…”  
  
“I need a shower,” Sherlock said but didn’t move.  
  
John swallowed. He should have… he should have at least fetched Sherlock a napkin or something, a wet towel, that was the fucking _least_ he could have done and he had just… just escaped to the bathroom and washed his fucking hands, as if that helped, as if his _hands_ were the fucking problem -  
  
“Don’t,” Sherlock said and glanced at him.  
  
He opened his mouth.  
  
“Shut up,” Sherlock said.  
  
“I didn’t –“  
  
“You were going to. And I know what you’re thinking.”  
  
“…no, you don’t, and –“  
  
“Yes, I do,” Sherlock said and stood up slowly. He looked like he was sore but not in any serious pain, which was absolutely fucking right, because he shouldn’t have been, he shouldn’t have been aching at all, John should have been more careful… “Just stop it,” Sherlock said and walked to the bathroom.  
  
John sat down on the edge of the sofa and tried to cry but couldn’t. Then he gave up and went to make tea.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Stop thinking about it,” Sherlock said.  
  
John glanced at him. They were sitting on the sofa, both of them, watching television. They had seen the evening news, the forecast, five minutes of a true television show in which teenagers got drunk and kissed each other, and two episodes of a detective show Sherlock clearly didn’t like, but there was nothing better on and also Sherlock hadn’t said anything out loud. John kind of hated himself a little for sitting here and waiting for Sherlock to tell him to switch the channel instead of just doing it, but he already hated himself _a lot_ , so it really didn’t make much of a difference.  
  
Now, he thought briefly about saying that he wasn’t thinking about it and Sherlock wasn’t a mind-reader, was he? But well, Sherlock _was_ , and also John was thinking about it, because how the hell he could have not? _Bedroom,_ he had said multiple times, his voice already breaking. _No,_ Sherlock had said, _here,_ as if he had decided that if it had to happen, it should happen in the least comfortable way possible. _Here. On the floor._ At least he hadn’t pushed away the pillow John had put under his knees.  
  
“Sorry,” John said now.  
  
Sherlock kept his eyes on the television screen. “That’s what I meant. Stop thinking that it was your fault. It wasn’t.”  
  
John opened his mouth, closed it and opened it again. “It’s not your fault, either.”  
  
“Of course not,” Sherlock said in a sharp voice. “It’s no one’s fault. You aren’t completely stupid. And you are a doctor. You know this.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, but…”  
  
“You did what you had to do in unfortunate circumstances that are no one’s fault.” Sherlock paused but still didn’t look at him. “You did exactly what I wanted you to do. What I had asked of you. Repeatedly. So if you want to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for yourself.”  
  
He stared at Sherlock. He shouldn’t have. Maybe he shouldn’t have been in the same room with Sherlock. Sherlock probably couldn’t bear the sight of him now. But the thought of leaving Sherlock here alone…  
  
No.  
  
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet now. “I can’t stand it.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
Sherlock took a sharp breath and then grabbed John’s hand so quickly that John barely had time to register what was happening. He stopped himself from yanking his hand free. Sherlock was squeezing his wrist a bit tighter than would have been wise. But Sherlock was also looking him in the eyes. _Finally._  
  
“See?” Sherlock asked. “I can still touch you. I’m not angry. I’m not… whatever you think that I am. _Broken._ ”  
  
“I know you aren’t broken,” John said. Sherlock had looked broken, though, earlier today, lying on his side in the living room, naked from the waist down.  
  
“I’m just sick,” Sherlock said. “And you’re a doctor. It’s so simple.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said. _Simple_ was the last thing that it was.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“How are you feeling?” he asked after midnight, when they were still sitting on the sofa. The television was on mute and Sherlock had been staring the wall for at least half an hour now. “Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock shifted on the sofa, then blinked and slowly turned his gaze to John.  
  
“How are you feeling?” John asked again. “Are you… did it…”  
  
“Help? Yes.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “I feel… almost normal. Certainly better than this morning.”  
  
This morning, John had found Sherlock lying on the sofa, sweaty but cold to touch, shivering, and looking like he might pass out. He had said to Sherlock that they should go to the hospital. Sherlock had said no, just like he had every time that John had suggested going to the hospital during these past three days.  
  
Sherlock frowned. “Or did you mean…”  
  
“No,” John said quickly, “no, I…”  
  
“I’m alright,” Sherlock said, watching him carefully, as if there was something interesting about his eyes. Good fucking luck that this was the moment when Sherlock chose to really look at him. He had no chance at lying now. “A little sore, but that was expected. Don’t worry about it. You were careful.”  
  
“I tried to…” He cleared his throat. “I tried to do it slowly, but you…”  
  
“We waited for too long,” Sherlock said in a steady voice. He sounded almost bored. It was definitely an act. “Next time, we won’t wait until my symptoms get so bad.”  
  
“Maybe there’s not going to be the next time,” John said, even though he knew he shouldn’t.  
  
“Of course there’s going to be the next time,” Sherlock said. “Four to eight times. That’s been agreed on several medical journals during the past six months. I don’t see why you would try to comfort yourself by lying to yourself.”  
  
“I’m just saying,” John said, not knowing what he was saying, “that…”  
  
“That you’re sorry. Yes. I know that. Stop saying it. You know I hate –“  
  
“Repetition.” He took a deep breath. “Sorry.”  
  
“ _John._ ”  
  
Bloody fucking hell. “Alright. I just…” He looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him. The cold light of the television reflected on Sherlock’s face and made him look even paler than he was. But John supposed he looked better now than he had this morning, better than yesterday, better than the day before that, even, when there had been rarely any symptoms yet, but he and Sherlock had both been so on the edge he doubted either of them had been able to think about anything else. So, Sherlock felt better now. Less… ill. That was good. That was a small comfort. “Just tell me if there’s anything I can do,” he said to Sherlock.  
  
 _You’ve done enough_. That’s what Sherlock should say.  
  
“Of course,” Sherlock said. He didn’t seem to be mocking. He sounded sad, and tired. “Nothing at the moment, though. And, John?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
John cleared his throat. Sherlock held his gaze as if it was a challenge of some sort. He straightened his back and told himself he was supposed to stop apologising. Sherlock hated repetition. Too dull for his brilliant brain, probably.  
  
Oh, god, this was fucking _awful_ , the whole thing. “Of course,” he said to Sherlock, as if he had brought them milk or something. And then he almost laughed. Sherlock never thanked him for getting milk.  
  
Sherlock looked at him for a few more seconds, then turned his gaze back to the television. His face went all blank.  
  
“What –“ John started, and then he glanced at the television. There were two people, naked and…  
  
He grabbed the remote control and switched the channel. Football. That was good. He breathed in and out, not daring to look at Sherlock, and when he was quite sure he could stop himself from saying sorry, he opened his mouth.  
  
“Do you want to go to sleep?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. He looked like he was far away.  
  
“Okay. Do you want to… do you want to be alone?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Okay,” John said, rubbing the side of his nose. It was good that Sherlock didn’t want to be alone, because John probably couldn’t have let him be alone anyway. Not right now. “Tea?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t answer. John leaned against the back of the sofa and turned the volume up. So, football.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock glanced at him.  
  
“Can I ask you something?”  
  
“Clearly you’re going to,” Sherlock said. John almost smiled at the tone, and then suddenly felt incredibly sad, and then wanted to hit himself, because surely Sherlock could see all that on his face. “Just ask me,” Sherlock said. He sounded like he meant it.  
  
John took a deep breath. He hadn’t… he hadn’t asked about it beforehand, even though he _had_ thought about it, and surely that would have been important knowledge, but also he was a _doctor_ , he knew how to be careful, and he wanted to be careful anyway, and if he was being honest with himself, how much significance did that have, anyway, in the circumstances? It wasn’t the same thing. It wasn’t -  
  
“John.”  
  
He cleared his throat. “Had you… before?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t look at all surprised. For some reason that made John feel worse. “Maybe you should specify.”  
  
“You know what I’m asking,” John said, his voice coming out thin.  
  
“Alright, I’ll do it for you,” Sherlock said. “Had I participated in acts of penetrative sex?”  
  
John stared at him. It seemed like the wrong thing to do but John had a feeling that looking away would have been worse.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. “I hadn’t. Doesn’t make any difference, though.”  
  
“Of course it does,” John said without meaning to.  
  
 _Idiot_ , Sherlock’s eyes said. “What are you thinking, that I’m some kind of a virgin you _deflowered_ and now you have ruined my reputation _?_ My _virtue?_ ”  
  
“No. But –“  
  
“Social constructions. That’s what those are. We never cared about them before.”  
  
“No, I… Of course not.” John swallowed. “I don’t think you had much _virtue_ to begin with.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t exactly smile at him, but he felt a little better anyway. “And now you’re insulting my virtue, merely hours before you have stolen it from me,” Sherlock said.  
  
John opened his mouth.  
  
“I’m kidding,” Sherlock said. “Poor attempt at humour. I know it’s not my area, but you looked like you needed it.”  
  
Oh god. “No, you _are_ funny. Very funny. Especially when you’re not trying to be.”  
  
Now Sherlock smiled at him. Just a little. It felt like a pat on the head.  
  
“I just meant,” he said and breathed out. “I wish it could’ve been… different. For you. Your first time.”  
  
“I know you do,” Sherlock said, and then they watched football for another hour, until John couldn’t hold his eyes open anymore. Sherlock touched his shoulder, then pulled his hand away and said he wanted to go to sleep, and John asked if he was alright, bit his lip, and then said okay. He brushed his teeth in the bathroom and when he came back, Sherlock was still on the sofa. He said good night.  
  
In the morning, he found Sherlock curled on the sofa, snoring. He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.  



	2. Chapter 2

Four days earlier, John came home after a long day at the clinic. It had been raining and he had forgot his umbrella, and now his shoes were soaking, because he had tried to run so he wouldn’t get wet, and instead he had run to the puddle. He kicked his shoes off, hung his coat and went to the kitchen, where Sherlock was doing something with the microscope. The table was a mess, which was kind of fitting actually, because they didn’t have anything to eat, either.  
  
John opened his eyes to ask what had happened to the leftovers from yesterday, and that was when Sherlock glanced at him. There was something in Sherlock’s eyes that made him close his mouth and pull his shoulders back. Something was wrong. Maybe the so-called scientific experiment in the microwave had finally exploded.  
  
…or maybe not, actually. That wasn’t Sherlock’s _sorry John there are human parts in our microwave_ -face. That was more like Sherlock’s _sorry John I used your best pair of socks for an experiment you will never understand because of your tiny brain_ -face. Well, that was good, because John had bought new socks a week ago and hid them in the box that held his porn magazines and was therefore the only place Sherlock wouldn’t bother looking too thoroughly. He didn’t know what the deal was with Sherlock and sex, and he didn’t think much about it, because it had nothing to do with him, and he knew how to respect other people’s privacy, unlike someone else. But he supposed Sherlock just wasn’t interested in sex. At least Sherlock never talked about sex. And if Sherlock had been having sex, surely John would have known about it. They were living together, after all.  
  
“I’ve got it,” Sherlock said.  
  
John cleared his throat. God, he could feel his feet leaving wet marks on the floor. He needed a warm bath and a cup of tea. And he needed to stop thinking about Sherlock and sex. “You’ve got what?”  
  
Sherlock bit his lip.  
  
Oh… “Milk? Really? I know I asked you to, but I didn’t think –“  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. “It. The virus.”  
  
John blinked. That didn’t make any sense. “You –“  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You got –“  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“The virus –“  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“ _The_ virus –“  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“The virus that –“  
  
“Yes, John,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. His face was very calm, like it always was when he had to tell John that he had blown up something. But this was… this didn’t make sense.  
  
“But,” John said and swallowed, “ _how?_ ”  
  
Now Sherlock was looking at him as if he was silently wondering how the hell John could be so stupid. That was nice. It was familiar. And to be honest, John felt stupid. This wasn’t happening. Yeah, sure, there was a new virus spreading, had been for the past six months, but there were barely any cases in Britain so far, less than ten anyway, he knew because he had been keeping up with the news. Not because he had been worried, but… it was interesting. The virus, it… it sounded like it was from a very bad science-fiction novel or something. Or… from a porn film. It sounded like something a writer of a porn film might have come up with to figure out a way to make two people bang even when they absolutely didn’t want to.  
  
He thought he might throw up.  
  
“I don’t know how I _got_ it,” Sherlock said slowly, as if he wasn’t sure John understood English right now. That was fine. John barely did. “Do you know where you caught that flu you had last spring?”  
  
“In the clinic, probably,” John said and took a deep breath.  
  
“Yes, breathe, that’s a good idea,” Sherlock said. “If you pass out and knock your head against the table, I won’t take you to the hospital, I’ll just order you a taxi. I don’t know where I caught the virus, John, it could have been anywhere.”  
  
“There’re barely any cases in –“  
  
“Britain. Yes. I know. We both know. But there _are_ cases. It’s just bad luck.”  
  
“You didn’t…” Oh, god. “This isn’t… you aren’t lying to me, right? This isn’t some sort of an experience? And you didn’t… you didn’t, for a case…”  
  
“Did I infect myself with the virus for a case? No. No, I didn’t.”  
  
“I didn’t think so,” John said quickly, “I just –“  
  
“Sit down.”  
  
He sat down. Okay. This was better. He grabbed his knees and tried to think. He was a doctor. He could fix this. He was a very good doctor, in fact, and… alright, there wasn’t a cure, except for the obvious, but the virus wasn’t _lethal_ or anything, there was no need to be so shocked, they would just have to… he would fix this. He would… okay, he would have to take Sherlock to the hospital, because he definitely didn’t know how to fix this, and no one else did either, not yet. There wasn’t a cure. Oh, god, there wasn’t a cure, and that meant that… He wasn’t going to think about it. No. Definitely not. He would fix this somehow. He would try. The only thing he was certain of was that he wasn’t going to -  
  
“I need you to do it for me,” Sherlock said.  
  
John blinked. Sherlock was looking him straight in the eyes. He opened his mouth to say no, no, he wasn’t going to, he would never do that to Sherlock. But there was something in Sherlock’s eyes that stopped him. “Are you sure?” he asked instead. “That… that you’ve got it?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Have you –“  
  
“I checked four times.”  
  
“We should take you to the hospital.”  
  
“I’m not going to go to the hospital.”  
  
“Of course you are,” John said, dimly aware that he sounded like he was panicking a little. Goddamn. “At least let them run their tests. Maybe you don’t –“  
  
“I have been infected, John,” Sherlock said, his voice blunt and clear. “I checked. Very thoroughly. It’s not as if it’s difficult. You know that.”  
  
“No, I…” John bit his lip. He knew that Sherlock was capable of running the tests himself. More than capable. But maybe the second opinion…  
  
“If I go to the hospital, they will keep me there. Until it’s over.”  
  
He stared at Sherlock.  
  
“Obviously, I considered that first,” Sherlock said. “It would be easier for you. You wouldn’t need to have any part in it. And you should… maybe you should leave. Go for a holiday. For two or three weeks. That’s fine with me, if you decide it’s what you want.”  
  
“You’re suggesting that I’d go for a fucking _holiday –_ “  
  
“I’m not _suggesting_ it,” Sherlock said, his voice coming out tight now. “I’m just… what I’m asking of you, it will be highly unpleasant for you, and I –“  
  
“Stop,” John said, “stop talking.”  
  
“But the risk of you getting infected is very low,” Sherlock said. “Because of your blood type. You have seen the articles. You’re highly improbable to catch it even if you stay here with me the whole time. You aren’t in any danger. So, if you decide to stay –“  
  
“Of course I’m staying,” John said. “And you’re going to the hospital.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “I want you to do it for me.”  
  
“Do you have any idea –“  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Because when your symptoms begin, the only thing that’s going to help is –“  
  
“Someone needs to have penetrative sex with me,” Sherlock said and then frowned. “ _At_ me.”  
  
John let out a breath that sounded a bit like he was laughing. He wasn’t laughing.  
  
“I am well aware of what I am asking of you,” Sherlock said. His voice was blank again, but his eyes weren’t. “The request is… I understand if you want to decline. I completely understand. You can just go away for a short while, and I will stay here and deal with this… some other way. And then you can come back and nothing will have changed.”  
  
John bit his lip. “Of course I’m not going to leave you, you bloody _idiot._ But surely we should get you to the hospital –“  
  
“And,” Sherlock said and folded his hands on the table, “what do you think will happen in the hospital?”  
  
John stared.  
  
“It will be impersonal and highly unpleasant,” Sherlock said. “That’s why I’m asking you instead. You can use alcohol if you need to, and obviously you’re free to pretend I am someone else, but –“  
  
“No,” John said and grabbed Sherlock’s hand over the table. Then he froze. But he couldn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand. Someone’s hand was shaking, and he didn’t know which one of them that was. Maybe both. He stroked the back of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’m not going to pretend that you’re someone else, of course not, that’s… no. I just… are you _sure_ there’s no better way?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, took a deep breath and pulled his hand free from John’s grip. “Now that we have reached the agreement, I hope we could pretend we didn’t have this conversation. For as long as we can. I currently have a mild headache, nothing worse, and it’s going to take at least two days before my symptoms become unbearable. Lestrade texted me fifteen minutes ago. There’s a new case.”  
  
John swallowed. “We can’t just –“  
  
“John.”  
  
“Yeah, alright.” He wanted to go to the bathroom, take a shower and hit something, preferably something that would _hurt._ But he could do that later. If Sherlock needed him to pretend this wasn’t happening, he was going to do exactly that. For a while. It would become impossible soon enough. “Let’s go,” he said and stood up. “But I’m going to need to get something to eat on the way.”  
  
“No time for that,” Sherlock said. He sounded relieved.  
  
  
**  
  
Sherlock looked like he always did. Perfectly normal. Or not _normal,_ never normal, just… extraordinary in his usual way. Maybe he was a little tense, nagged at Lestrade for letting incompetent fools run over the crime scene, deduced the specifics of Andersson’s morning wank and showed even less empathy for the victim than normally. But everyone had bad days.  
  
John stood back, clenched his fists in his pockets, and missed half of what was going on. Sherlock seemed like he had hit his toe this morning, not like he had got news that he was seriously ill.  
  
“Hey,” Lestrade said, stopping at John’s side, his eyes on Sherlock. “Is he sleeping poorly or something?”  
  
“Always,” John said and cleared his throat. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Maybe he’s just hungry.”  
  
“Serious?” Lestrade asked and glanced at him. “What do you mean, serious?”  
  
He shook his head and tried to smile. He thought he was pretty good at giving convincing smiles when he meant them the least. He was a doctor, after all. And a soldier. “He spent the day alone in the flat. Probably hasn’t eaten anything. I can’t understand how he’s still alive.”  
  
“Yeah,” Lestrade said, turning to look at Sherlock. “Me, neither.”  
  
It was close to midnight when they finally took a taxi to Baker Street. They stopped to get take-out on the way and then finally stumbled to the flat. Sherlock went to the bathroom, John took the food to the kitchen and started eating. He was so hungry he couldn’t think, which was kind of nice because he didn’t want to think. Not about what was going to happen. In a few days. _I need you to do it for me_ , Sherlock had said, which was absolutely fucking mad, because what that meant was that John would… John would have to have sex with Sherlock, and that was… that was so not the point. _Sex_ wasn’t the problem. And it wasn’t about the sex anyway. It wouldn’t be _sex_. It would be…  
  
He felt sick. The light in the kitchen was too bright. He closed his eyes for a moment and thought about nothing, no, he thought about the sounds Sherlock was making in the bathroom. Apparently Sherlock was taking a shower. He thought of Sherlock there, washing his hair, rubbing himself clean, and _bloody hell_ how he wished he could have saved Sherlock from this…  
  
He only opened his eyes when he heard Sherlock’s footsteps stopping at the kitchen doorway. “John?”  
  
“Sorry,” he said. Sherlock was wearing boxers and a t-shirt and had wrapped himself in the bathrobe. His hair was wet and he looked flushed.  
  
“You’re nauseated,” Sherlock said. “What’s it? The food? Or –“ And then he went quiet.  
  
“Just come here,” John said. “Eat something. You need to eat.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Sherlock said but came to the table, sat down and started eating. John watched his hands. They seemed steady. “I said I’m fine, John.”  
  
“Yes, I know.”  
  
“I’m not going to jump at you.”  
  
“I… that’s not what I’m worried about.”  
  
“It’s not?” Sherlock asked, stuffing his mouth with food. He was surprisingly graceless eater sometimes. “You’re staring.”  
  
“Sorry,” John said and blinked.  
  
“Still staring.”  
  
“Sorry, I –“  
  
“Do you have work tomorrow?”  
  
John cleared his throat. “Haven’t you nicked my calendar lately?”  
  
“I don’t need to, it’s obvious.” Sherlock licked his lips. “From nine ‘til five.”  
  
John nodded, then took a deep breath. “I’m not going. I’ll stay here.”  
  
“I can’t ask you to do that.”  
  
“You ask me to skip work all the time.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “But only when it’s important. For the cases. Not because…”  
  
“Because you’re sick and might need me,” John said. Sherlock flinched, but then again, it had been less than twelve hours since Sherlock had told him to stop lying for comfort. “Of course I’m staying home. We can watch television.”  
  
Sherlock swallowed.  
  
“The Lord of the Rings,” John said, looking at his own hands, because really, surely there was a limit for how much of staring at your friend’s face could be considered _normal._ “You’re going to watch the movies. Finally.”  
  
“But there are –“  
  
“Three of them, yes. And we’re watching the extended versions.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes.  
  
“I’m going to skip work for The Lord of the Rings marathon. Makes perfect sense.”  
  
“You’re crazy,” Sherlock said. He sounded shocked. Well, he would be more shocked tomorrow, when they would spend twelve hours in Middle-earth.  
  
“Sure,” John said. “And tired, too. I think I might go to sleep now. Unless you still want company.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
“But you’re going to sleep, right?”  
  
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Eventually.”  
  
John bit his lip.  
  
“Go to sleep,” Sherlock said. “I need you well-rested tomorrow, you know, so that we can have a good argument about that The Lord of the Rings marathon. Just… one more thing.”  
  
John stood up. “Yeah?”  
  
Sherlock looked at the fridge door. “You should get something.”  
  
“I should –“  
  
“Viagra.”  
  
Oh. _Right._ John took a deep breath. That made sense. “I’ll handle it.”  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, still not looking at him.  
  
“Hey,” he said, “don’t worry.” Of course Sherlock would worry, and _he_ would worry, and there was no way around that, but… “I can handle this.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. He looked smaller than he usually did, sitting there at the kitchen table with his fancy bathrobe and his wet messy hair. He smelled of shampoo. It was good. He always smelled good.  
  
“Good night,” John said and went to sleep.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He woke up in the middle of the night and walked down the stairs to the bathroom. At the door he stopped. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, balancing John’s laptop on his knees. He was still wearing the bathrobe.  
  
“There’s nothing,” he said, not looking at John. “All this research, and there’s nothing…”  
  
“It’s still new,” John said. He had one hand on the bathroom door handle. “Have you slept at all?”  
  
“Useless,” Sherlock said, “completely useless, I can’t…”  
  
John walked to the sofa, sat down next to Sherlock and took the laptop. “I’ll help. You can sleep for a few hours.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “I can’t. Time is –“  
  
“Can I touch you?”  
  
Sherlock swallowed, then nodded very slowly. John put his hand on Sherlock’s knee, kept it there for a few seconds, light and unmoving, then started rubbing slow circles with his thumb. Sherlock breathed in and out.  
  
“Take a nap. I’ll keep searching.”  
  
“You won’t find anything,” Sherlock said. He sounded scared, but he was breathing steadily, and he hadn’t pulled away from John’s touch.  
  
“I know,” John said. “I’ll keep looking anyway. You really need some rest before twelve-hour movie marathon.”  
  
“Good lord,” Sherlock said. “You’re enjoying this.”  
  
“Absolutely not.”  
  
“No, I meant…” Sherlock reached for him and patted his arm in a somewhat clumsy gesture. “You’re enjoying the unfortunate fact that I am going to endure twelve hours of imaginary people running around in an imaginary land with you.”  
  
“It’s a classic. You should know that.”  
  
“So I’ve heard,” Sherlock said. “But I can’t understand what the catch is. What’s making it a classic? Are there pretty men?”  
  
“Yes,” John said, biting his lip. “Yes, there’re pretty men. You can judge for yourself tomorrow. You can give them scores, if you like. Make a list.”  
  
“Sounds acceptable,” Sherlock said, sighed and settled lying down on the sofa. At the process he pushed his feet into John’s lap. “Sorry.”  
  
“No, that’s… are you going to take a nap _there?_ ”  
  
“I need some rest. I’m going to be grading men by their looks tomorrow.”  
  
Oh, god. “I could go back to my bedroom.”  
  
“You can stay,” Sherlock said. “If you like. I don’t mind.”  
  
“Okay,” John said.  
  
Five minutes later he remembered he hadn’t got to the bathroom and that he needed to piss. But Sherlock’s feet were still in his lap. Sherlock was snoring lightly.  
  
John sighed and stayed where he was.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“I should take notes,” Sherlock said the next day, when they were having leftovers in between _The Fellowship of the Ring_ and _The Two Towers._  
  
“What?” John asked. He hadn’t thought Sherlock was so interested, even though he _had_ endured the first movie with only mild complaining.  
  
“The symptoms. I should take notes. It might be useful.”  
  
Oh. “Well, if you want to –“  
  
“I can’t.” Sherlock looked straight at him. “I don’t want to. It doesn’t make sense. It would be sensible to… I should gather data, there’s no reason not to, but I…”  
  
“You don’t have to,” he said, his chest suddenly tight.  
  
“I can’t bear to write things down, because then I feel like a subject, and I don’t want to feel like a subject, I want to…”  
  
John put his plate away and then very slowly took Sherlock’s hand. “It’s alright.”  
  
“I just want it be over,” Sherlock said.  
  
John nodded. He hadn’t slept much last night, not after he had settled on the sofa with Sherlock’s feet in his lap. But he had had time to think. He couldn’t imagine how they would ever be able to put this behind them. Even when it was over, they would still remember that they had had to… that John had… There was no way they could just forget about it afterwards, was there? Absolutely no way.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, holding Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. “Yeah, me too.” He wanted to stop the time right now. They were home, together, he had Sherlock’s hand in his, they were in the middle of The Lord of the Rings marathon, and nothing terrible had happened. Not yet.  
  
“Is this,” Sherlock said and squeezed John’s hand, “is this because you’re trying to get me used to you touching me? So that it won’t be as shocking when we…”  
  
“No,” John said. “It comforts me.”  
  
Sherlock looked sceptical but didn’t let go of his hand.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“John,” Sherlock said after another eight hours of the problems in Middle-earth, “I don’t feel too good.”  
  
“Come here,” John said, even though they were sitting on the sofa, side by side. Sherlock leaned towards him. “Does it hurt?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, looking at him as if he was waiting for John to tell him. “It’s more like… I feel like I’m… aching. Inside. Or… like my skin is hurting, but from the inside.”  
  
John swallowed. “We could try paracetamol –“  
  
“Won’t help. You know that.”  
  
Yes, he knew that. He had spent the early hours of the morning reading everything he could. He bit his lip and placed the flat of his palm briefly against Sherlock’s forehead. “I don’t think you have fever. But you’re…”  
  
“I’m cold, too,” Sherlock said. “Not unbearably so, but…”  
  
“I could take you to the hospital.”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “John –“  
  
“If you want me to. Anytime you want me to. Just tell me, and I will –“  
  
“No. No, I’m not going there.”  
  
“But maybe they would know more than –“  
  
“I’m not going,” Sherlock said, grabbed John’s arm and dug his fingers into the skin. John flinched. “Sorry,” Sherlock said but didn’t stop squeezing. “I’m not going. Alright?”  
  
“…yes, alright, just –“  
  
“You can leave. Anytime. No hard feelings. Just leave, and I will –“  
  
“What?” John asked, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist. It didn’t make Sherlock let go of his arm, but he felt better anyway. He could feel Sherlock’s pulse jumping against his thumb. “You will go out on the street and find some stranger to come here and –“  
  
“Of course not,” Sherlock said, his eyes wide. “I would pay someone.”  
  
“You would pay a stranger to –“  
  
“Well, it’d have to be a stranger, wouldn’t it, because if you think that I’m going to let someone I know fuck me, you’re delirious. Really, John, what a great fucking idea, to ask Lestrade to come over and –“  
  
“Lestrade?” John repeated and squeezed Sherlock’s wrist tighter. “You would rather have Lestrade than me?“  
  
“Of course not. That was the whole point. It’d have to be a stranger, because it’d be terribly awkward to have sex with Lestrade and then –“  
  
“I’m doing it,” John said, wondering vaguely when he had raised his voice. He took a deep breath. It didn’t help. “You asked me to do it. I’m going to do it. No… no _strangers_ , Sherlock, absolutely not. I just… I thought maybe it would be better for you if you went to the hospital.”  
  
“Stop talking about the hospital,” Sherlock said, but his eyes were fixed on John’s. “I’m not going. But if you don’t want –“  
  
“I will do it.”  
  
“I shouldn’t have asked, that’s –“  
  
“I will fucking do it, Sherlock,” John said. Sherlock let go of his arm, and he let go of Sherlock’s wrist.  
  
“Did you get –“  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You did?”  
  
“Yes.” He had got Viagra, and he had got them enough food that they would last here for more than a week, if they needed to.  
  
“Good,” Sherlock said and then straightened his back. “Did I –“ And he glanced at John’s arm. John glanced there as well. Sherlock’s fingernails had left angry red marks. “I apologise,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Don’t,” John said. He hadn’t realised how tired he was. Maybe the third movie had been a little bit too much. “I don’t think I’ll be able to do enough apologising. Ever. For what I’m going to do.”  
  
“Your apologies will be completely unnecessary,” Sherlock said, “you idiot. Now, should we get back to it?”  
  
John blinked. “Back to what?”  
  
“To watching stupid fantasy movies. You do realise that they could have used the eagles to get to Mordor in the first place? Would have saved us at least ten hours.”  
  
“We already watched three movies,” John said. “There’re only three movies. It’s a trilogy.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“But,” John said slowly, “there is a sequel. Or a prequel. Or… or a trilogy that’s kind of… that happens a hundred years before these movies.”  
  
“Okay,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“We are watching it?”  
  
“Is it good?”  
  
John bit his lip. “Not especially, no.”  
  
“Finally some honesty,” Sherlock said and breathed in. He was wearing one of his tiny fancy shirts and the buttons looked like they would give up any moment. “Let’s do this, John,” he said. John did his best not to stare at him and focus on the movie instead, but it was difficult.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Should we talk about it?” John asked the next day, when it was already evening and they had seen all the Hobbit movies and had had a very unsatisfying round of Scrabble. Sherlock was wearing one of John’s old pullovers and was still shivering. He had been pale all day and hadn’t complained at all about the plot, but every time John had asked him, he had said he was fine.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said now, not looking at John. “No condoms, as you know. But you don’t need to be concerned, I have been tested. And about the technique… I trust that you will try not to cause any more physical pain than is necessary.”  
  
John swallowed. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “Are you sure –“  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said.  
  
“That you don’t want to –“  
  
“ _Yes._ And if you say once more that you think I should go to the hospital, I’m going to call Lestrade and ask if he could be so kind and come here to fuck me.”  
  
John closed his mouth.  
  
“Just transport,” Sherlock said and stood up. For a second John thought he might fall, but he grabbed the back of the armchair and didn’t. “It’s just transport. Nothing more.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John said and cleared his throat. He wanted to walk to Sherlock, grab his shoulders, pull him closer, maybe hug him and keep him there in his arms, stroke his hair, say that it was going to be alright, that he would never hurt Sherlock, never, only he knew he was going to. He bit his lip. “You know that you can tell me to stop anytime, right? You know that.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said and glanced at him. “But from what I’ve read, I don’t think I’m going to.”  
  
John breathed in and out.  
  
“It’d be a bit counteractive, don’t you think?” Sherlock said and smiled. Just a little. But John wanted him to stop, needed him to stop. “I think I’m going to go to sleep now.”  
  
“Alright,” John said. His voice sounded wrong. He _felt_ wrong. “In your own bed?”  
  
“Obviously,” Sherlock said, looking at him. “Good night, John.”  
  
“Good night, Sherlock,” he said and then watched as Sherlock walked to the bedroom. It was obvious that Sherlock was in pain, but certainly it wasn’t too bad. They might have one more day. They could watch more movies. Maybe Star Wars. Sherlock would absolutely hate Star Wars. It would be lovely.  
  
He waited until he could hear Sherlock closing the door to his bedroom. Then he got onto his feet, finished his lukewarm cup of tea, took a shower, brushed his teeth, spend five minutes pacing around in the living room and went to his bedroom. It took him a long time to fall asleep, but when he did, he had a dream in which they had just met and he shot a man for Sherlock.  
  
In the morning, he came downstairs and Sherlock was on the sofa, wrapped in blankets, shaking and breathing hard. He asked if Sherlock was alright. Sherlock said his name. Sherlock’s voice sounded like he was crying.  
  
  
**  
  
  
First John made tea. He couldn’t do anything without having tea first. He poured the water into the mug and sank the teabag into the water and poked at it with the spoon. Then he fried eggs. He made two for Sherlock, put them onto the plate and asked if Sherlock wanted them. Sherlock didn’t answer, so he took the plate to Sherlock anyway.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said.  
  
John went back to the kitchen. He just needed a moment. He said that to Sherlock, sat down at the table and tried to eat. There had been one time in Afghanistan when he had seen one of his friends die and hadn’t been able to do anything. The lad had been from Birmingham, twenty-five, practically a kid, face full of freckles from the endless sunshine and light streaks in his brown hair. And John had counted the seconds and begged for more. He never prayed but wasn’t it praying if you held someone’s hand and said _it’s not time yet, it’s not time yet_ until your mouth was dry and he was dead.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said, when John put the plate on the sink. His hands weren’t shaking. That was good. He turned to look at Sherlock, who was sitting so close to the edge of the sofa that he seemed to be in the danger of falling onto the floor.  
  
“Not yet,” John said.  
  
“ _John_ –“  
  
Bloody fucking hell. “Are you _sure –_ “  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said. His voice was hoarse and his eyes were glassy.  
  
“Alright,” John said. He sounded calm. He wasn’t. “Just give me a moment.”  
  
“A _moment?”  
  
“_A minute. Just a minute. I’ll just –“ He went to the bathroom first, sat down on the toilet to piss, then washed his hands, washed his face, thought about taking a quick shower, surely that would be a polite thing to do, but when he was about to undo his belt, he heard a thump from the living room as if something had been dropped onto the floor. A body. _Sherlock._ He came out of the bathroom and then went upstairs without glancing at the living room. He had put the pills in his drawer, so they wouldn’t be anywhere where Sherlock would see them. He took one in his hand, told himself he was going to do this, and swallowed it. He had lube, too, in the drawer. He always had lube. He took a deep breath and walked to the door. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to do this. Viagra would only help him so far, he still needed to… he needed to want to… and he couldn’t, couldn’t he, no, when Sherlock obviously didn’t, he wasn’t even sure if Sherlock had ever had sex, they didn’t exactly talk about that, no, and he had kind of supposed it wasn’t Sherlock’s thing. He was almost sure of that. And now he was going to… he was going to…  
  
He walked down the stairs. Sherlock was sitting on the living room floor.  
  
“Please,” Sherlock said.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Bed,” John said. “We should do this in bed.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. “Floor.”  
  
“It’d be more comfortable –“  
  
“No.”  
  
“But you don’t want to be _uncomfortable,”_ John said, holding back the urge to stroke Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock was on his knees and elbows on the floor, his head hanging down, everything in him shaking.  
  
John touched his back and he startled. The fabric of his shirt was damp.  
  
“Let’s go to bed,” John said. He could barely hear his own face. “I can carry you.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. “ _Now._ ” And then, after a few frozen seconds, “you promised.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
John pushed a pillow under Sherlock’s knees. He put his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and kept it there for a few seconds, said that it was going to be alright. _Fuck me_ , Sherlock said. John told him to try to relax. This would take time. He would have to be careful. He didn’t want to hurt Sherlock. Sherlock said John was hurting him already, and that didn’t feel much different from the time when John had jumped into the lake after Sherlock. In November. For a case. He had done all kinds of mad things for Sherlock. He tugged Sherlock’s shirt up, pushed his thumbs under the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, tugged them down, did the same with Sherlock’s boxers. His heart was beating in his throat. He tried to swallow it down but couldn’t. There was no way he could do this, he thought and squeezed lube onto his palm. There was no way.  
  
 _John_ , Sherlock said and almost fell onto his face. John. John. John. Or maybe he had stopped saying it out loud and it was just ringing inside John’s head. Careful, John told him, relax, breathe, and he was a doctor, he knew how to do this part, _I know this is uncomfortable,_ he said and slipped his finger inside. And then the second one. Then the third one. You’re going to be alright, he told Sherlock and realised with a sharp sting that he was hard. Sherlock was, too, but that meant nothing, that was the virus. John shouldn’t have been. This was terrible. He had known for a long time that he wasn’t a particularly good man, but to want Sherlock like this, in this situation, that was bad, that was really bad, and Sherlock would hate him for this tomorrow.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said to him against the floor, “fuck me, fuck me –“  
  
And had he thought about this sometimes, well, maybe he had, but only because other people had put the thought into his head. People kept saying that they were a couple, even though they weren’t, because John wasn’t gay, and he didn’t think Sherlock was gay, either, not exactly, Sherlock was _Sherlock_ , but the most important point was that _John_ was _not_ gay, but that didn’t mean he didn’t realise how beautiful Sherlock was, because Sherlock _was_ , Sherlock was absolutely beautiful, and John loved him more than anything else in this world, more than himself, so much more, and he would have done just about anything…  
  
He pulled his fingers out, told Sherlock he was doing great, then spread Sherlock’s cheeks with one hand as he adjusted his dick with the other. Thank god for Viagra because he could blame it later. He told Sherlock that Sherlock was good, he was great, he was the best fucking consultive detective in the world, and pushed his cock inside. Just the tip. Just a little. And when he stopped to take a breath and check that Sherlock was alright, Sherlock pushed back against him.  
  
He grabbed Sherlock’s hips. “Don’t –“  
  
“John,” Sherlock said, sounding half-mad and still like himself, “John, you need to _fuck me_ , you can’t just _stop_ –“  
  
“It’s going to hurt –“  
  
“It already _hurts_ ,” Sherlock said and shoved his ass into John’s lap.  
  
“Hey,” John said and tried to keep him still, “hey, can you just stop that, I’ll handle this, just…”  
  
But he couldn’t handle it. He fucked Sherlock and thought about how someone really needed to take a good grip of him and hit him in the face for this, because he was doing this, and it was very difficult to remember he was doing this for Sherlock.  
  
Afterwards, he told Sherlock it was okay, breathed in and out, and closed his zipper. He hadn’t even taken his fucking socks off. He didn’t know if that was good or not. He spent the day trying to apologise but Sherlock wouldn’t accept it. And in the next morning, he found Sherlock curled on the sofa, snoring. He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

“Tea?”  
  
John glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock had woken up but was still lying on the sofa, under the blanket. His hair was a mess and he didn’t look like he was wholly awake yet. But his eyes were sharp.  
  
“Yeah,” John said. “I’ll make you a cup. How’re you feeling?”  
  
“It’s back,” Sherlock said. “The ache.”  
  
John almost dropped the kettle.  
  
“It’s not bad. Not yet. But it’s proceeding faster than the last time. I suppose, maybe this evening –“  
  
“ _ Sherlock  _ –“  
  
“Anyway, what’s for breakfast?”  
  
John cleared his throat. “I could fry you eggs.”  
  
“That would convenient,” Sherlock said and walked to the kitchen. He took the blanket with him.. “I’m quite hungry. Maybe it’s the sex.”  
  
John fried the eggs and somehow managed not to drop anything. He made Sherlock a toast too and Sherlock finished everything, only when he tried to give Sherlock an apple, Sherlock looked at him as if he had gone suddenly crazy. He ate the apple himself.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“I need to get out of the house.”  
  
John put the newspaper down. He was sitting on his armchair and Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, reading something in John’s laptop. “Out?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, not watching him. “Text Lestrade and ask him if he’s got a case for us.”  
  
He swallowed. “Don’t you think that… that we shouldn’t take a new case right now?”  
  
“And why not?” Sherlock said slowly, closed John’s laptop and put it aside. Then he looked at John. His eyes were sharp. He was certainly thinking some of version of the usual  _ John is an idiot _ thesis.  
  
“Because,” John said just as slowly, “because you’re sick, and we don’t really… we don’t want to be in the middle of a new case when it gets worse.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him. “What are you, a doctor?”  
  
_ Fucking hell, _ he thought. Sherlock was either surprisingly well or had lost it altogether. “You aren’t funny.”  
  
“I am, a little,” Sherlock said. “You are smiling.”  
  
John wasn’t smiling. He couldn’t possibly smile. “I’m not  _ smiling.” _   
  
“You’re thinking about smiling. It counts.”  
  
“No, it doesn’t,” he said and realised he was smiling. “But since you asked, yes, I’m a doctor, and no, I’m not going to text Lestrade.”  
  
“A walk, then.”  
  
“A walk –“  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You want to go for a walk.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I’m not going to let you out of the house alone.”  
  
Sherlock sighed loudly. It was very dramatic and it made John smile again. “Well, obviously I wouldn’t go for a walk without my doctor.”  
  
“I’m not your –“  
  
“Okay, I’ll rephase it. Obviously I wouldn’t go for a walk without my John.” Sherlock blinked. “And it’s very convenient, isn’t it, how you tell me you’re my doctor when you want to boss me around, and then take it back when you don’t want to go for a walk with me.”  
  
“Of course I want to go for a walk with you,” John said and then bit his lip. So, if that had been a trap, he had walked right into it.  
  
“Let’s go, then,” Sherlock said and stood up. He had taken a shower and was wearing a white dress shirt and pressed trousers again. Maybe to fool John that he was better than he really was. Or maybe to fool himself. But John appreciated the thought anyway. It was good, seeing Sherlock wearing stupidly fancy clothes at home again. It made him feel that maybe what had happened yesterday morning hadn’t happened after all. Or hadn’t been exactly real.  
  
Only, of course it had been real. And it would happen again. Four to eight times, was the consensus at the moment. From four to eight times, the patient would have to participate in penetrative sex as the receiving participant, or else the virus would quickly and thoroughly destroy the patient’s immune system and then their internal organs, leading to, so the papers agreed, death.  
  
“Sherlock,” he said and took a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to –“  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I can’t just sit here when you’re looking at me like that.”  
  
“…like what?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. John cleared his throat.  
  
“Sorry –“  
  
“Stop it. You’re looking at me like you feel sorry for me. And for yourself. Stop that, too.”  
  
“I can’t just –“  
  
“I  _ know _ ,” Sherlock said and walked to the door. His steps were a little unsteady. John stared. He should have asked what it was about. Maybe it was the virus or maybe Sherlock was still sore from yesterday. “John. Stop it.”  
  
“What –“  
  
“Both,” Sherlock said, “it’s both. The virus, and your penis. You can’t stop looking at me like that, so I’m going out.”  
  
John stood up, grabbed his coat and rushed to the door. “I’m coming with you.”  
  
“ _ Obviously. _ But don’t look at me.”  
  
“I can’t just stop looking at you,” John said, made sure he had the key in his pocket and then followed Sherlock down the stairs to the front door. “I’m not capable.”  
  
Sherlock glanced at him.  
  
“If you wanted me not to look at you,” he said, “maybe you should look less…”  
  
“Less what?” Sherlock asked. It was drizzling and of course they hadn’t brought an umbrella, but Sherlock didn’t seem to consider going back to fetch one, so John didn’t either.  
  
“Less like that,” he said.  
  
Sherlock smiled. “What do you mean, like that?”  
  
It was odd, being out on the street, the sounds of traffic all around them, people they didn’t know and who didn’t know them, the rain, the sound of their footsteps on the pavement. “With your… I don’t know, your coat and your hair and your cheekbones.”  
  
“My  _ cheekbones? _ ”  
  
“Yes,” John said and settled walking side by side with Sherlock. Their shoulders bumped together at every other step. Or okay, his shoulder bumped into Sherlock’s arm. “As if you don’t know.”  
  
“What? About my cheekbones?”  
  
“ _ Yes. _ ”  
  
“What about my cheekbones?”  
  
John bit his lip. Goddamn. “Nothing. Just that they’re nice.”  
  
“ _ Nice? _ ”  
  
“Pretty,” he said and rubbed his nose. God, it felt good to be out of the house. He felt almost normal.  
  
“ _ Pretty _ ,” Sherlock said slowly. He sounded pleased and as if he was trying to hide it. “You think my cheekbones are –“  
  
“Well, yes.”  
  
“- pretty.”  
  
“I didn’t think you liked repetition.”  
  
“Sometimes there’s a good reason for it,” Sherlock said and took a deep breath. “Just my cheekbones?”  
  
John looked at the golden retriever waiting for its owner in front of the post office. Oh, god, this was maybe a bit not good. He couldn’t possibly just tell Sherlock what he thought of Sherlock’s body parts, and  _ yes _ , he had a lot of thoughts about them, about Sherlock’s face especially, and his hands, his hands were so large and clever and did impossible things and still the skin there was almost… soft, he probably used lotion or something, maybe every day, maybe it was a part of Sherlock’s morning routine to apply hand lotion… but John wasn’t going to think about that, not now, and what was more important, he wasn’t going to  _ talk _ about it, not when they were in the middle of this fucking mess.  
  
He cleared his throat. “You know how you look.”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “No, I don’t.”  
  
“Don’t be an idiot. Of course you do.”  
  
“I…” Sherlock glanced at him. He realised vaguely that he was getting a bit breathless. They were walking fast, and one of them didn’t have impossibly long legs. Well, one of them wasn’t sick either, so that should have helped him. “It’s subjective,” Sherlock said. “I know how I look  _ to me _ . I don’t know how I look to you.”  
  
John swallowed. Oh, damn, he shouldn’t, but he was going to. “You look good to me, Sherlock. Very good. You look… But you must know that. Maybe you can’t deduce it from looking in the mirror. But you can see it on my face. That I like… the way you look.”  
  
Sherlock blinked. “Yes.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Yes, I can see it. On your face.” Sherlock was quiet for a moment. They took a turn in the corner and walked towards the park. “It never made sense.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Doesn’t make sense. I’m missing information.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “Never mind. So, my cheekbones. What else?”  
  
John pushed his hands into his pockets and then had to pull them out immediately. He couldn’t walk fast enough if he had his hands in his pockets. “Do you use hand lotion?”  
  
“Do I… What are you saying, that my hands are soft?”  
  
“Yeah,” John said, looking at the ducks in the pond, “that’s what I’m saying. They’re soft. So, I was wondering –“  
  
“Hand lotion,” Sherlock said, “yes, that’s what makes them soft. You’re very clever.”  
  
John bit his lip not to smile but couldn’t help it.  
  
“What else?” Sherlock asked, looking away so that John didn’t almost hear. But he did. He tugged at his collar and told himself they were just talking. It was just conversation. Something to keep their minds away from what was happening.  
  
“You’re incredibly pretty,” he said. “For a man. But in a good way. Definitely in a good way. I… Surely you know that.”  
  
“I said it’s subjective.” Sherlock slowed down a little. Well, that was good. John took a deep breath. “I see how people react. But obviously… they don’t usually like me, and that affects their assessment of my… of the way I look.”  
  
“I like you,” John said.  
  
Sherlock glanced at him. “I know. I don’t know why.”  
  
“Me neither. You never buy milk.”  
  
“That’s because you always buy milk.”  
  
“But I buy milk because you don’t buy milk.”  
  
“We can’t both buy milk,” Sherlock said. “There’s no point.”  
  
“You could buy milk sometimes.”  
  
“But you always buy it.”  
  
“Oh my god,” John said and looked up, even though the rain was getting harder. “I don’t know why I like you so much, you wanker. We are supposed to take turns buying milk. And doing everything else. And I just… you never do dishes. I always do it.”  
  
“You never clean bathroom.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“I always do it,” Sherlock said. “Once a week. Otherwise it gets filthy.”  
  
John opened his mouth and then closed it. He never cleaned bathroom, because the bathroom never seemed to need any cleaning, and he hadn’t… he actually hadn’t wondered why that was. “You clean the bathroom?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said.  
  
“I didn’t realise –“  
  
“I suppose not,” Sherlock said and then frowned. “Do you take the garbage out sometimes?”  
  
“No,” John said. “Do you?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said and looked at him. He looked back.  
  
“Surely Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t –“  
  
“Don’t ask her,” Sherlock said, “or she’s going to stop.”  
  
“We can’t let her do our housework for us.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
John shook his head. “It’s not good. It’s like… like we’re a married couple in the fifties and we need a woman to do everything in the house because men just can’t do any of that stuff.”  
  
“We aren’t  _ married _ , John,” Sherlock said and tugged his collar up. “We are just partners.”  
  
“Not the point,” John said and then blinked. “What did you –“  
  
“Are you cold?”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“I am,” Sherlock said, sounding irritated. “I don’t like this rain. There’s too much water in it. It’s getting me wet.”  
  
John cleared his throat. “I’m actually a little cold, too. Can we turn back?”  
  
“I suppose we’d better,” Sherlock said. “Because you’re cold.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said. “Thanks.”  
  
“No problem,” Sherlock said.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Hey,” Sherlock said, when they had already had dinner and were sitting in the living room, pretending to watch the news. “You realise I don’t hate it.”  
  
John glanced at him. Well, he supposed he had been watching Sherlock for some time now. “What?”  
  
Sherlock stared at him.  
  
“ _ Oh. _ ”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You don’t…”  
  
“No, I mean,” Sherlock began and took a deep breath, “I hate that… I hate the situation, and that you have to… that I’m asking you to… But yesterday, after we… after we did it, you were looking at me like you thought you had…”  
  
John swallowed.  
  
“You didn’t. You didn’t assault me.”  
  
John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Fucking hell. “Yeah, but that’s… that’s practically the same thing, because you didn’t really want to –“  
  
“It’s not,” Sherlock said so sharply that John opened his eyes, “it’s not the same thing. It’s nothing alike. I wanted you to. In the circumstances. I hate the circumstances, I hate how this is happening but… I _ needed  _ you to, and you did, and it was…”  
  
“I hurt you.”  
  
“It was like I was dying from thirst,” Sherlock said in a weak voice, “and you gave me a bucket of water, and it was a bit too much and I knew it but I wanted it anyway, couldn’t think about anything else, really, I wanted… everything.”  
  
John stared at him.  
  
“That was a bad metaphor,” Sherlock said and grimaced. “I’m not a poet.”  
  
“Yes, you are,” John said and bit his lip. “Next time, we’re doing it in bed.”  
  
Sherlock swallowed. “But won’t that be… wouldn’t it be easier for you, if we just… quickly, on the floor, so that you remember it doesn’t mean anything?”  
  
“Of course it means something,” John said, breathing in and out, “it means a lot. You’re my  _ best friend. _ You’re my… you’re my person, Sherlock, you’re mine, and… I killed a man for you once.”  
  
“On the day we met,” Sherlock said.  
  
John nodded. “Yes. On the day we met. I’d do it again. Without a blink. Having sex with you is… if I could always save you by having sex instead of killing people, that’d be… that’d be really nice.” He paused. On the television, they were talking about sports. “But I’m hurting you.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
“Just, please, can we do it in bed next time?” John asked. “Unless there’s no next time.”  
  
“There is.”  
  
He breathed in. “In bed, then. It’ll be better. Can we just… can you let me… let me make it as good as I can?”  
  
“I was trying to make it as easy for both of us as I could,” Sherlock said and blinked. “Also I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time.”  
  
“You don’t know anything about sex,” John said and ignored the disapproval in Sherlock’s eyes. “Maybe you’ve read about it. But that’s different.  _ I  _ know. I’ve had… a lot of sex.”  
  
“Thank you for stating the obvious.”  
  
“Shut up, I’m getting to the point. I know sex. Let me do it right.”  
  
“You haven’t had sex with men, though,” Sherlock said slowly.  
  
“No,” John said, “but this isn’t  _ men _ , this is you. You’re different. You’re…”  
  
“I’m what?”  
  
“You’re you.”  
  
“Your deduction skills really are –“  
  
“Shut up. You’re you, and we are… It’s different.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him silently for a few seconds. “Is it my cheekbones?”  
  
He smiled before he could stop himself. “Oh, yes. Yes, you got it. Very clever. It’s your cheekbones.”  
  
“I knew it.”  
  
“Well, you are the master of deduction.”  
  
“You want to have sex with my cheekbones.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said, wondering what Sherlock would do if John touched his face.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“We need to go to sleep.”  
  
“Really? We don’t yet know who won this football match that’s been recorded two years ago.”  
  
“…Sherlock.”  
  
“…John?”  
  
“It’s just…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You said, this evening.”  
  
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then took a deep breath and looked John in the eyes. “You are tired. I’m sure I’ll be fine if we wait ‘til the morning.”  
  
“We’re going to have sex in the morning.”  
  
“Yes, I think so.”  
  
“But you’re shivering.”  
  
“It won’t kill me during the night.”  
  
“I can just… I can, if you want me to –“  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, “just go to sleep. We’ll do it in the morning.”  
  
John took a deep breath. “If you’re sure.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Good night, then.”  
  
“Good night.”  
  
“…are you going to go to sleep?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You aren’t going to watch football the whole night.”  
  
“No, I absolutely am not.”  
  
“It’s just, you’re still sitting there.”  
  
“Just go,” Sherlock said. “Good night, John.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
John woke up when someone grabbed his shoulders. He almost shoved his elbow at the intruder’s chest, but it was Sherlock, Sherlock was shaking him by the shoulders, kneeling over him on the bed.  
  
"Great, you’re awake,” Sherlock said and didn’t let go of John’s shoulders. “I need it.”  
  
John tried to sit up on the bed, but Sherlock pushed him back down. “What’re you –“  
  
“Now,” Sherlock said, sitting down on his hips, “I’m sorry, I said in the morning but I can’t wait, I’m so sorry, I feel like it’s… I can’t  _ think _ , and it feels… like someone’s ripping me apart from the inside, and I know that’s stupid, it’s just the stupid virus, but can you just… can you… where’s your Viagra?”  
  
“Hey,” John said and took Sherlock’s face in between his hands. Sherlock tried to pull back but John didn’t let him. Sherlock’s pupils were wide and his forehead was damp with sweat and he was panting. He kept blinking rapidly and John pulled his hands back. “Now?”  
  
“ _ Yes,  _ John, I –“  
  
“Alright,” John said. “Can you just… let me get the lube, I left it downstairs.”  
  
“You idiot,” Sherlock said. “I’ll get it.” And then he climbed off the bed, rushed to the door and hit his shoulder against the doorframe. John was with him in seconds, grabbed his arms and pulled him carefully back to the bed.  
  
“Sit down,” John said and pushed at Sherlock until he fell onto the mattress. He was wearing nothing besides boxers. There was a wet patch in the fabric and he looked like he was pretty much as hard as anyone could get. “Wait here,” John said in his best commanding voice. “Don’t go anywhere. Don’t move.” Then he went to fetch the lube, and when he came back, he found Sherlock naked, trying to push his forefinger into his arse.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said. He looked relieved. He was on his stomach now and shaking all over.  
  
“I’m sorry,” John said and climbed to the mattress, settling next to Sherlock. “Pull it out. I’ll do that for you.”  
  
“Stop fucking apologising,” Sherlock said, but he pulled his finger out and let John spread his thighs and settle in between them. “It ruins the mood. You’re the only person I’d ever want to do this for me. The only one. And I’m sorry I’m not better at this, I’m good at  _ everything _ , but not this, and I can’t  _ think _ , and I feel like I’m dying, like, literally, I feel like I’m dying, and I really need you to –“  
  
“Yeah,” John said, rubbing lube on his palm until his fingers were dripping with it. “Breathe.”  
  
“To put your cock,” Sherlock said and paused, took a breath, and oh  _ shit  _ he was  _ listening _ , he was really listening John, “to put your cock into my  _ arse _ ,” Sherlock said as John rubbed his fingertip against the tight muscle, “and what the fuck are you  _ doing _ , John, my John, my… you need to  _ fuck me.”  
  
“ _ Well, excuse me but I can’t just  _ fuck you _ ,” John said.  
  
“Take the pill,” Sherlock said, “you haven’t taken the pill, where’re are they, where…  _ oh _ . Obvious. In your drawer. You didn’t want me to see. Because you think I don’t want you to fuck me in the arse, but you’re wrong, John, you  _ are, _ now just take some and get your cock ready and –“  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with my _ cock, _ ” John said and pushed his finger finally inside, which apparently made Sherlock shut up for a second. Great. “I’m a little worried about my head, though. And about you. You don’t usually swear, Sherlock –“  
  
“Just fuck me,” Sherlock said, “or I swear I will fucking  _ die. _ ”  
  
“Stop talking,” John said and tried adding another finger. No luck. Too early. “Stop talking and try to relax for me.”  
  
“You’re too _ slow _ –“  
  
“Relax for me and I’ll stop being so slow,” John said, placing the flat of his palm against Sherlock’s back. He could feel Sherlock twitching under his touch. “Can you breathe?”  
  
“Yes, I can  _ breathe  _ –“  
  
“It’s just, you’ve kind of pushed your face into the pillow. Do you need help or –“  
  
“No,” Sherlock said and turned his head to the side. His neck would probably ache soon but at least John knew he was breathing now. “No, I don’t need your help, John, thank you very much, but what are you  _ doing _ , I don’t want your  _ fingers _ , I want your –“  
  
“My cock,” John said, “yes, I heard.” This would fucking kill him, this business. He shifted closer to Sherlock and eased the second finger very slowly inside, and Sherlock writhed and panted and obviously tried to relax but was very bad at it, and also he was trying to push against John’s fingers, so John had to press him down against the mattress, which didn’t feel right, but there was nothing about this that felt exactly right, and still he was hard already. There was so much wrong with him. “Sherlock,” he said, “you’re clenching around my fingers, and I really need to get you more loose before I… can’t you just… can’t you relax a little?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, eyes closed. “John –“  
  
“I’m here,” John said, “I’m right here, I’ll take care of you, just… think about something else.”  
  
“ _ Think about something else – _ “  
  
“I know it’s hard. I know you want to –“  _ To have my cock in your arse. _ “I know you want this to be over, but I can’t rush this, I really can’t, I don’t want you to tear anything, I won’t allow it. So, think about… something you like. Something that could distract you a bit.” He bit his lip. Bloody hell. “Think about serial killers.”  
  
Sherlock laughed shortly, or maybe it was a cry. “John –“  
  
“Someone who’s killed, I don’t know, four people,” John said, petting Sherlock’s entrance with his thumb, two fingers still in, “and no one’s noticed yet, no one’s noticed the pattern, but you know there’s a pattern, of course you do, because you’re  _ clever _ , you’re the best, you can see patterns where other people see… coincidences.”  
  
“The universe,” Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. “Rarely so lazy.”  
  
“Yeah. Good. But you’re going to catch him. The serial killer. No one else could. But you can. I never understood how you can be so… so good at some things, Sherlock, because you are, you’re brilliant, and… and utter rubbish at other things.”  
  
“I’m not  _ rubbish,” _ Sherlock said, and John pushed the third finger in.  
  
“A bit out of practice, then,” John said. It was easy enough to find Sherlock’s prostate. He brushed his fingertips against it and Sherlock flinched. “Shhh,” he said, stroking Sherlock’s back. “It’s fine. It’s alright. You’re alright. But your small talk, it’s terrible, you know, or… it’s perfectly fine when you’re acting. But when you’re being yourself, it’s… Maybe you just don’t care.”  
  
“I care about you.”  
  
“I know,” John said and run his hand up on Sherlock’s back until he could touch the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Do you trust me?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then wait a little,” John said, pulling his fingers out and then back in, stroked Sherlock’s prostate again, and pulled his left hand back down and placed it on Sherlock’s left buttock. His thumb brushed against the coarse hair. “Let me do this. Wait a little and relax. For me.”  
  
“I’d do anything for you,” Sherlock said, sounding drugged. “But –“  
  
“Just a little longer,” John said. “Just a little. I want you loose and relaxed.”  
  
“When you fuck me.”  
  
He bit his lip a bit too hard. “Yeah. When I fuck you.”  
  
“You haven’t taken the pill,” Sherlock said in a muffled voice. He was talking to the pillow. “I didn’t think you’d… you aren’t gay, John.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” John said and squeezed Sherlock’s arse, tracing the line between Sherlock’s cheek and thigh with his thumb. “Cheekbones, remember?”  
  
“I’m not a woman.”  
  
“Definitely not,” John said. In and out. He hadn’t… he had underestimated what it would feel like to see his fingers disappearing inside Sherlock like that. He had underestimated it badly. Even though he  _ had  _ thought about it. Once or twice. Because that was how gays had sex. He had seen some porn. And he was a doctor. He realised it was wise to prepare. Necessary. You couldn’t just push your dick into someone’s arse without some preparation. And this was Sherlock who had never done anything like this before, except yesterday, but John didn’t want to think about yesterday, this was so much better, they were in bed and Sherlock trusted him and wanted him to…  
  
He pulled his fingers out. “Breathe,” he said and reached to pet Sherlock’s back with his palm. “And I need you to… get up for me, Sherlock. Sherlock?”  
  
“John,” Sherlock said. His face was flushed and he sounded out of breath and half-gone.  
  
“On your elbows and knees, please.”  
  
“I don’t think I can move,” Sherlock said, “it  _ hurts  _ –“  
  
“I’ll help,” John said, draped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him up until his arse was in the air. Right there. “Can you stay like this?” John asked and ran his thumb down Sherlock’s cheek. Thank god he had switched the light on.  
  
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Lean against your elbows.”  
  
“John –“  
  
“It’s alright,” John said and gave Sherlock’s left cheek a tiny pat. The whole thing jumped. “Sherlock –“  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, “I don’t care, just fuck me already –“  
  
He slapped Sherlock’s arse. Not hard. Just… just enough that there was a sound. And then he had to stop Sherlock from falling onto the mattress. He helped Sherlock to get his elbows propped up against the mattress, so that his face wasn’t pushed against the pillow. “Alright?” he asked, and Sherlock said yes. “Good,” he said and crawled back behind Sherlock again. “I’m going to fuck you now. Okay?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, “please, just –“  
  
“It’s alright,” John said, spread Sherlock’s cheeks and pushed his cock inside. Oh, bloody fucking  _ shit. _ This was… he had his cock in Sherlock’s  _ arse _ , Sherlock  _ fucking _ Holmes was taking it from him, his Sherlock, because that was what they were, right, Sherlock was his and he was Sherlock’s, had been from the first day.  _ Cheekbones,  _ sure. More like,  _ everything.  _ Every fucking thing about Sherlock was perfect, including everything that obviously wasn’t. Sherlock was John’s. And John would never allow anyone else… would have never allowed anyone else to do this for Sherlock, this particular favour, he would have never let Sherlock ask for  _ Lestrade… _ or some stranger from the street… or a prostitute… or anyone, really, he would have never let anyone else do this for Sherlock, and he wasn’t  _ jealous _ , that wasn’t it, it was just that Sherlock was  _ his _ -  
  
“John –“  
  
“Easy,” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s hips tighter and fucking into him, “just breathe, just breathe, darling, it’s alright, I’ll just –“  
  
“John,” Sherlock cut in, “can you touch me? On my –“  
  
 _Oh._ “Yeah. Yeah, just…” It wasn’t easy to get his hand on Sherlock’s dick and keep his own dick in Sherlock’s arse, but he managed it, and then it took him a while to find the rhythm, but he managed that too, and Sherlock was shaking now, and saying his name, and wasn’t it weird that he was fucking Sherlock with Sherlock’s cock in his hand – and then he almost came, so what he thought about next was the sun in Afghanistan, the smell of the barracks, the stain of blood he had never got off his shoes. He thought about sour milk and afternoon traffic and hoovering and fucked Sherlock and held Sherlock in his hand until finally Sherlock let out a sound like someone had kicked him and fell down against the mattress.  
  
“Sorry”, Sherlock said against the pillow. He was shaking all over. John’s hand was pressed in between him and the mattress and John’s cock had slipped out and was dripping onto his thighs. “You can… you can keep going…”  
  
John grabbed his own dick with his left hand. It was weird, as if the hand belonged to someone else, yeah, the hand belonged to Sherlock, Sherlock was touching him, Sherlock wanted him to come too, Sherlock wanted him -  
  
He came in his own hand and crawled forward until he was at Sherlock’s side, and then he settled against the mattress, his heart beating like hell and his ears ringing.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Sherlock touched his face.  
  
He blinked. Maybe he had dozed off for a second. But Sherlock was still in bed with him, naked, lying on his side so that he was facing John. He looked calm but a little worried.  
  
“Was I drooling?” John asked.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
He took a deep breath. “Are you –“  
  
“Alright,” Sherlock said, “and better. It goes away immediately. The pain. The… you know.”  
  
John swallowed.  
  
“But the other thing,” Sherlock said, frowning. “It’s surprising. You were so careful. You took _ages._ And still I’m…”  
  
“You’re sore.”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
“Not surprising at all,” John said. Sherlock had touched his face, so maybe he could touch Sherlock’s. He pushed the strands of hair carefully from Sherlock’s face. “You don’t have experience. And it’s been less than two days since we…”  
  
“Still. Some people do it every day.”  
  
“I doubt that anyone actually –“  
  
“You would,” Sherlock said and then blinked. “I mean, not _this_ , obviously, but you would… you would have sex every day, if you had a willing partner. Or multiple partners.”  
  
John stroked Sherlock’s hair. It was damp and sweaty and clinging into his fingers. He wanted to smell it but that might have been a little weird. “I suppose I could. But I’m perfectly capable of wanking.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, “I know.”  
  
“You know?”  
  
“Yes. You aren’t very subtle about it.”  
  
He blinked. “I’m very subtle.”  
  
“I can hear you,” Sherlock said, “and I can see it from your face afterwards.”  
  
“…sorry.”  
  
“No, don’t… I wasn’t complaining.”  
  
John stared at him for a few seconds, then took a deep breath. “Anyway, I don’t think I’m going to be looking for a relationship anytime soon. I’m with you now. And you don’t really get on with my girlfriends.”  
  
“I just don’t want them to steal you.”  
  
“You idiot,” John said, touching Sherlock’s ear with his thumb. “No one could steal me from you.”  
  
“You might get married and have kids.”  
  
John opened his mouth and then closed it again. “ _You_ might get married and have kids.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him.  
  
“Why not?” he asked, then grabbed the blanket and tucked it up on them. He didn’t want Sherlock to catch a cold.  
  
“Because I’m gay,” Sherlock said.  
  
“You’re –“  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“…you never told me.”  
  
“Several people have told you,” Sherlock said. “Or guessed. And I’ve never corrected them. You aren’t that stupid, John.”  
  
John bit his lip.  
  
“You just didn’t want to see it.”  
  
Oh, god. He should find something else to think about. But he was caressing Sherlock’s shoulder now, and Sherlock’s skin was warm and soft under his fingers. “Why? Why didn’t I want to see it?”  
  
“Because,” Sherlock said, “you didn’t want to think that maybe I wanted you like this.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“Not _like this_ , of course,” Sherlock said, his eyes moving back and forth on John’s face, “ _this_ is terrible, it’s terrible that I had to ask you like this, and I knew I shouldn’t have, but you were… you were the only person whom I could let touch me. The only one. And I don’t… I don’t have sex, I just don’t, I never did, I kind of missed the moment when I was supposed to start and then I was twenty-five and thirty and no one starts having sex when they’re thirty, and it involves other people, and I don’t like other people, and they don’t like me, except –“  
  
“I like you,” John said.  
  
“- except you,” Sherlock said. “I like you.”  
  
John nodded. Then he nodded again. He didn’t know what to say, so he pulled his hand back from Sherlock’s shoulder. “I should change the sheets.”  
  
“Yes, there’s sperm on them,” Sherlock said, blinking. Then, before John could figure out what to say next, Sherlock pushed the blanket aside and climbed off the bed. “Thank you. I think I need to… I need to go to the toilet, and then I think I’m going to sleep.”  
  
“Good,” John said, “great, you should sleep, just –“  
  
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said and walked to the door. He didn’t pick his boxers up from the floor. “Sorry. Good night.”  
  
“Good night,” John said. “Sherlock –“  
  
“Sorry about the sperm,” Sherlock said and walked out of the door.  



	4. Chapter 4

“This is… usually on the sky, but –“  
  
“An aeroplane.”  
  
“No. So, they’re on the sky, but –“  
  
“A cloud.”  
  
“No. So, they can land –“  
  
“A cloud is on the sky, John.”  
  
“Yeah, but it’s not a cloud. Just let me –“  
  
“An aeroplane?”  
  
“It’s a goddamn animal, Sherlock.”  
  
“An animal? You didn’t tell me that.”  
  
“I’m telling you now. So –“  
  
“A flying squirrel.”  
  
“ _A flying squirrel?_ ”  
  
“Yes. My turn. So, this is –“  
  
“It’s not a flying squirrel, Sherlock.”  
  
“But you said it’s an animal.”  
  
“Yeah. But it’s not a flying squirrel. It’s… I’ve explained you the rules. You’re supposed to guess what I’m thinking about.”  
  
“Your clues are very bad. Why isn’t it a flying squirrel?”  
  
“Because it’s a bird,” John said and then bit his lip. He took a deep breath and leaned back in his armchair. He had been so glad that Sherlock had agreed to play a game with him, and now he wanted to forget about it and switch the television on. “It’s a bird,” he said, “that was my word, and I said it out loud, so I guess that’s a point for you, you wanker. Your turn.”  
  
Sherlock looked ridiculously pleased with himself. “I know how to play this game.”  
  
“No, you don’t.”  
  
“My turn. My word is _solar system._ ”  
  
John opened his mouth and then closed it.  
  
“…I shouldn’t have said that out loud.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said, “no, you shouldn’t have. Are you hungry?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. “Don’t you want to play anymore?”  
  
“Not particularly. Are you sure you aren’t hungry? You left half of your pizza in the fridge.”  
  
“I don’t think I can eat now. Does that mean that I was bad at it?”  
  
“No, you were just…” John sighed. “You were bad. But it doesn’t matter. I was bad, too. We can be bad together. What do you mean, you don’t think you can eat now?”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said. “Tell me the rules again. I promise I’ll listen this time.”  
  
“Aren’t you feeling well?”  
  
Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds and stood up and walked to the kitchen. He followed.  
  
“Talk to me,” he said, cornering Sherlock against the sink.  
  
“I’ve been talking to you the whole day,” Sherlock said.  
  
Well, that was true. When John had come downstairs in the morning, Sherlock had already been up, making tea in the kitchen. They had had breakfast in the living room and when John had mentioned that it would probably rain today, Sherlock had answered with the whole forecast. And when John had said that they probably should do something about the pile of books Sherlock had stolen from the library half a year ago for a case, Sherlock had actually seemed to consider it. Then Sherlock had said they could bury the books in the park.  
  
Sherlock was trying to be nice. That was what it was. It had happened before – not often, but once in a while, and usually after Sherlock had done something extremely _not_ nice. John had been meaning to say something about it. _You don’t need to be so nice_ , maybe. Or _you haven’t done anything wrong_. Or _I’m not cross with you_. But Sherlock was already aware of all this, wasn’t he? So, John hadn’t said anything.  
  
And then he had started thinking that maybe Sherlock wasn’t nice because he thought he had done something, maybe he was nice because he thought John had done something and didn’t want John to know. And that made sense, really, because John _had_ done something. Last night.  
  
He had washed the sheets this morning. Now they were hanging over the door to dry. He kept glancing at them.  
  
He swallowed and tried again. “I want you to tell me, if it’s getting worse again.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him.  
  
“I mean it,” he said, his voice coming out strained.  
  
“It’s getting worse,” Sherlock said.  
  
 _Shit._ And John hadn’t even noticed, because Sherlock had been so _nice_ all day and he had got distracted. “Any pain?”  
  
“Only mild.”  
  
“But you aren’t shivering or anything,” John said, then glanced down on Sherlock’s body. He reached to take Sherlock’s hand in his. It was shaking. “Okay,” he said and let go of Sherlock’s hand. “So, I… I don’t think we should… it’s been less than twenty-four hours.”  
  
“I don’t think we should, either,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Because I can,” John said, forcing himself to look Sherlock in the eyes. “You said it yourself. I could have sex every day. I just… I’m worried that you’ll hurt yourself.”  
  
“You shouldn’t worry about that,” Sherlock said. “I’m fine.” He didn’t look fine. He looked worried. “Really.”  
  
John nodded. “Okay. So, what –“  
  
“Do you want tea?”  
  
“No,” he said and then sighed. “Yes. Yes, I want tea. Thank you.” He watched as Sherlock put the kettle on. Sherlock was wearing a light blue dress shirt, but two top buttons were open. Pretty casual, then, for a boys’ night at home. John was wearing sweatpants and a pullover that had holes in it. “Why’re you being so nice?”  
  
“I’m not being nice.”  
  
“Yes, you are.”  
  
“Well, I won’t be in the future, if it displeases you that much.”  
  
“No, I…” He took a deep breath. “I’m worried about us.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t ask why.  
  
“I’m worried that when this is over… you’re going to feel like… I’m worried that something’s going to be different. Between you and me. Because we…”  
  
“We can pretend that none of this ever happened, if that’s what you like.”  
  
“We don’t _have_ to,” he said. He didn’t know what he was saying. “Just, can you promise that you won’t hate me?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said.  
  
“…yes?”  
  
Sherlock turned to look at him. “I promise I won’t hate you.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really,” Sherlock said, tilting his head to the side and watching him. “You’re being incredibly stupid, by the way.”  
  
“I’m not,” he said. “It’s a reasonable –“  
  
“No, it’s not,” Sherlock said and walked out of the kitchen. “You can make your own tea.”  
  
“Where’re you going?”  
  
“To my room. Don’t follow me.”  
  
John glanced at the kettle. He heard Sherlock walking to his bedroom and shutting the door. He had two cups of tea sitting in the sofa, watching the news. There were three new cases in Britain. Four, because they didn’t know about Sherlock. John changed the channel, watched fifteen minutes of some kind of a boring talk show, in which actors talked about acting and each other. Then he took his second cup of tea with him and followed Sherlock.  
  
“I thought you might,” Sherlock said, when John knocked and opened the door. Sherlock was lying on the bed on his back, his hands folded over his stomach. He was staring at the ceiling. “Hate me after this, I mean.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I estimated that there was at least forty-five percent chance that asking you to do something like that for me would permanently alter the way you think about me. Obviously, the impact would be negative. Taking that kind of a risk would be highly irrational. But then I considered all the other options, and they were…”  
  
“All the other options –“  
  
“…thoroughly unpleasant,” Sherlock finished. “I thought about asking Lestrade. I could have done something for him in return, maybe go through his file of dull cases and solve them for him. Then I thought about how it would happen. You should go away, of course, because you wouldn’t like hearing it happen through the wall. I was quite sure some level of physical discomfort was to be expected, and you don’t enjoy hearing me in pain. But if you weren’t home, we could do it in my room. Lestrade would make a fuss about it, not unlike you, but I don’t… I don’t _mind_ when you make a fuss. Not much, anyway. It’s always different when it’s you. But I couldn’t…”  
  
“Sherlock,” John said, because there really seemed to be nothing he could say at this point. He walked to the bed and sat down on the edge.  
  
“I couldn’t bear the thought of it,” Sherlock said. “He would have been gentle about it. And he would have laughed at it afterwards to make us both feel better. As if it’s a joke. But he would have been worried. And he would have wondered why you weren’t the one to do it.”  
  
John took a deep breath and placed his hand on Sherlock’s arm. It was warm under his touch.  
  
“A prostitute,” Sherlock said, “a prostitute with the right blood type, so that he wouldn’t be at any risk. That was the logical solution. In case I would find someone who’d accept the job. But I suppose it’s only a question about money. But I ran the scenario in my head, us in the bed, and how I would have to take off my trousers for it, and my underwear, and he would have to touch me, like, he would probably take a grip on my hips, like you did, before he could –“  
  
“Please, stop,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s arm lightly. “Please.”  
  
“It would have been the ideal solution for the situation,” Sherlock said in a quiet voice. “There was at least thirty percent chance that I could have avoided telling you altogether. It involved minimal risk of a subsequent change in our relationship.”  
  
“You would’ve told me,” John said. “Or I would’ve found out anyway. And I would’ve been so angry. You were a goddamn idiot for even considering that.”  
  
“I didn’t want to risk this,” Sherlock said and glanced at him.  
  
“You aren’t risking anything,” he said. “We’re going to be alright. We’re going to figure it out.”  
  
“I said you can get drunk for it,” Sherlock said. He was talking so quietly John could barely hear.  
  
“I don’t need to,” John said and shifted closer to Sherlock. He ran his fingers up Sherlock’s arm, touched Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb, then pushed his fingers carefully into Sherlock’s hair. It was a little damp. “You’re sweating.”  
  
“I don’t feel good.”  
  
“Do you want to go to sleep?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Do you want me to…”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. “Not yet.” And then, “sorry.”  
  
“We really have to stop apologising for this,” John said, petting his hair. “Do you want to deduce the most embarrassing moments of my childhood?”  
  
Sherlock blinked. “…yes?”  
  
“I fucking knew it,” John said. “Can I lie down?”  
  
“…if you want to.”  
  
“Thanks.” He settled onto his side, close enough to Sherlock that he could easily touch Sherlock, but far enough that their knees didn’t bump together. “Okay. This first thing happened when I was eight, and it involved a lawnmower.”  
  
“No hints,” Sherlock said, “I don’t need hints.”  
  
“Well, I have to tell you something.”  
  
“Quiet,” Sherlock said, squinting at him. “A lawnmower? Really?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“But your family lived in the apartment building.”  
  
“Right,” he said. “Do you need hints yet?”  
  
“No. Shut up. Don’t say anything. I’ll figure it out.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t figure it out. Instead, he dozed off. John thought about what he would have done if he had found out that Sherlock had caught the virus and had asked Lestrade to fuck him. Or a prostitute. He might have killed someone. Sherlock, probably. He couldn’t understand how Sherlock had ever thought John wouldn’t want to be the one to help. Of course he did. There was no question about it.  
  
Sherlock started drooling on the pillow. John rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. It was nice, listening to Sherlock breathe.  
  
  
**  
  
  
When John woke up, Sherlock was already awake, lying next to him on the bed and looking at him as if he didn’t remember how John had got there. John climbed off the bed and wandered to the kitchen, and Sherlock followed him, only Sherlock had to lean against the doorframe to keep himself straight.  
  
He asked if Sherlock wanted to wait. Sherlock shook his head. They did it in Sherlock’s bedroom, and no matter how many times John asked if Sherlock was in pain, Sherlock always said no, and it was obviously a lie, and there was nothing John could do about it. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s back where the fabric of his fancy shirt was damp with sweat and clinging onto his skin. Then he kept fucking Sherlock, because that was the only thing that would help, eventually, even though he knew every thrust hurt. He could feel it in the way Sherlock kept flinching. He circled his arm around Sherlock without asking and took Sherlock’s cock in his hand, and then he jerked Sherlock off as efficiently as he could when he had his own dick inside Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock finished first. John pulled out and came into his hand after a dozen tugs, and then he went to the bathroom, came back with a wet towel, and cleaned them both as well as he could. Sherlock was breathing hard and watching him as if he was the only thing in the world that mattered. He wondered vaguely what Sherlock had done if John had tried to kiss him, but that wouldn’t be fair. Absolutely not. He supposed that if Sherlock had ever wanted to kiss him, he would have realised that by now. They had lived together for years, after all.  
  
“Hey,” he said, petting Sherlock’s hair. “I think I should go to sleep. Do you need something?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. “Good night.”  
  
“Good night,” John said and left.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He fucked Sherlock again in the afternoon next day. He couldn’t even get his fingers in without hurting Sherlock. Afterwards, he took Sherlock to the kitchen where the light was best and told him to prop his elbows against the table and lean forward so that John could check him. Sherlock only blinked and then obeyed. He was shivering again but probably from the cold. It was kind of nice how quiet and calm he was after sex. John helped him to put his boxers back on and wondered what they would do if Sherlock started bleeding.  
  
Then again, they had already fucked four times. Four to eight times, that was what they were expecting. Maybe it was already over. They had tea in the living room, and John played with Sherlock’s hair and thought that it might be over already. That was good. That was a fucking relief. He wouldn’t have to hurt Sherlock like that anymore.  
  
The next morning, he woke up to Sherlock pacing a circle in his room. Sherlock seemed drunk. John told him to get to bed, then undressed him, took off his shirt as well, and he didn't seem to mind. At least he didn’t say anything. He settled on his elbows and knees and waited quietly as John coaxed his fingers into him. When John finally fucked him, it didn’t take long. He fell asleep in John’s bed after. John took his hand and kissed his fingers, and he started snoring. He looked tired even when he was asleep.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Why is this easy for you?” Sherlock asked when they were eating lunch.  
  
John almost chocked on the rice. “ _Easy?_ ”  
  
Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds, frowning, then blinked. “I didn’t mean that you’d be unsympathetic towards my… my unfortunate condition. I only meant that it seems easy for you to…”  
  
John took a sip of his glass of water.  
  
“To obtain and maintain erection,” Sherlock said in a thin voice. He looked thoroughly uncomfortable and as if he couldn’t make himself look away.  
  
John swallowed. “Sorry.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said immediately, “I didn’t… It has been extremely helpful. I’m just…”  
  
John rubbed his nose.  
  
“I’m just confused. I didn’t think you’d…”  
  
“You’re asking me why I want to fuck you.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said and then frowned. “Am I?”  
  
“Well, your question was how I can keep my dick hard. So…” John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I –“  
  
“Cheekbones.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“You told me already. I just didn’t remember. My apologies.”  
  
“I… _what?”_  
  
“You like my cheekbones.”  
  
“Yes, but…” He paused. He could hear his heart beating. “Yeah. I like your cheekbones.”  
  
“That makes sense.”  
  
“I just… I wish my cheekbones were… I wish there was something about me that was… We’re a bit improbable match, aren’t we?”  
  
“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock said. “I like everything about you. Are you going to eat your tofu?”  
  
He let Sherlock have the rest of his tofu. Later, Lestrade texted Sherlock about a new case and they had a short argument about whether they should go or not. John won the argument by asking if Sherlock was completely sure that they wouldn’t have to fuck right there in the crime scene. When Sherlock emerged from his bedroom again two hours later, he was so restless he took the violin and played something that had to be modern music, because it sounded like shit. John kind of wanted to escape to his own bedroom, but he was worried Sherlock might text Lestrade and go to the crime scene alone, and there was just no way that John would let Lestrade fuck Sherlock in his absence. No way. So, he endured the modernism or whatever the fuck it was, and five hours later he fucked Sherlock again and almost kissed Sherlock on the mouth before he managed to stop himself.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“John,” Sherlock said.  
  
John opened his eyes. He was in his bed, it was the middle of the night, and Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Come here,” he said and made room under the duvet.  
  
Sherlock took his pants off and settled next to John.  
  
“How bad?”  
  
“Not very,” Sherlock said, “but I can’t sleep. Can you –“  
  
“Yes,” John said. He stroked Sherlock’s side, then let his hand wander down and reach between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock’s mouth dropped half-open when John circled his fingers around Sherlock’s dick. “You’re so pretty,” he told Sherlock. “It’s unfair. You have the brain too. One person shouldn’t have that much.”  
  
“I have you,” Sherlock said. His eyelids were flickering.  
  
John swallowed. “Yeah. True.”  
  
“Not really, though.”  
  
“Of course you have me.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said and then took a sharp breath as John stopped teasing him and tugged with a little effort. “After all this is… over, you will go and… find yourself another…”  
  
“No, I won’t.”  
  
“…girlfriend.”  
  
“After this is over,” John said, “you aren’t going to want anything to do with me. I mean, anything like this.”  
  
“You’re wrong.”  
  
“You’ll go back to being _Mr. I Don’t Need Sex._ ”  
  
“I don’t _need_ sex,” Sherlock said, pushing into John’s fist. “But I think… if you and me…”  
  
John bit his lip. Sherlock was panting now, and his face was getting pink very quickly, and he was looking at John with his mouth open and his eyes a little unfocused. So, yes, John wanted to have sex with him. Definitely. And everything else. The whole fucking deal. Breakfasts and crime scenes.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said, “you’re supposed to fuck me.”  
  
Oh. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”  
  
“No, don’t… that was… that was good, it’s just…”  
  
“The virus. Yes. I remember.” John helped Sherlock to roll onto his stomach, then blinked and grabbed Sherlock’s hips again. Sherlock didn’t resist when John rolled him onto his back, pushed a pillow under his arse, and then another pillow because the angle still seemed impossible, and then he spread Sherlock’s knees and sat in between them. He would have to buy more lube. He coated his fingers with it and pushed one into Sherlock, slowly, and Sherlock clenched around his finger and looked like he was in pain and also like he couldn’t stop looking at John. And John had never quite realised what Sherlock saw in _him._ He was so ordinary. Just a regular bloke but with a lot of issues. He wasn’t a catch. _Sherlock_ was. Sherlock was the only person with whom John could imagine growing old together. Two men in 221B Baker Street, reading newspapers, arguing about scientific experiments in the kitchen, solving crimes, drinking tea, and having sex.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said in a rushed voice. John already had three fingers in, so he pulled them carefully out and replaced them with his dick. It felt different like this.  
  
“Alright?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, looking at him. He gripped the base of his dick and very slowly pushed all the way in.  
  
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.  
  
“You aren’t,” Sherlock said. “In total, you aren’t. Did you want to see my face?”  
  
“Yes,” John said, pulled out and pushed back in.  
  
“Good,” Sherlock said. “Great. It’s much better like this. All your expressions, John –“  
  
“Don’t you dare to deduce me while I’m trying to fuck you.”  
  
“I couldn’t. I never know what you’re feeling.”  
  
“Of course you do,” John said. His throat felt tight.  
  
“Subjective,” Sherlock said. “Might look different to me than it looks… feels to you. Too many possible explanations. Too little data. Too much – _oh –_ “  
  
“Did I –“  
  
“Keep going. Too much of personal interest. I’m too involved. I can’t –“  
  
“Should I go slower?”  
  
“No. You’re fucking me, John.”  
  
“Yeah, I noticed.”  
  
“I mean… we’re having _sex_.”  
  
“Yeah. I got that. Are you breathing?”  
  
“I thought… I thought we couldn’t do that, because you aren’t… gay. You told me. You told everyone. I thought… but, you keep saying, _cheekbones_ –“  
  
“Sherlock,” he said, “I kind of think that you should forget about the times I said I wasn’t gay.”  
  
“…why?”  
  
“Because we’re having sex.”  
  
“A favour. For me.”  
  
“No,” he said, and there was a sinking feeling inside of him, but also he was close to coming. “No, I’m really not. This isn’t me doing a favour. This is… me taking advantage of… of you.”  
  
“Same,” Sherlock said and closed his eyes, “ _ah_ –“  
  
“Good?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Can I –“  
  
“ _Yes._ ”   
  
  
**  
  
  
He kissed Sherlock. They were lying on the bed, naked and still breathless, and his hand was sticky with cum and he supposed Sherlock’s thighs were too, and he really should have gone downstairs to get a damp towel or a napkin or something. But instead, he leaned closer and kissed Sherlock on the mouth.  
  
Sherlock froze for long enough that John pulled back and opened his mouth to apologise, but Sherlock pushed their noses together again, pushed their mouths together, kissed him clumsily like someone who had seen a few movies about it and was trying not to panic. He took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock squeezed his and then pulled back and said that he had sperm in his hand.  
  
In the morning, Sherlock was still in his bed.  
  
Twenty-seven hours later, they fucked in Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock fell asleep soon after. He was bleeding a little. John cleaned him and pressed kisses on his thighs and then realised he wasn’t actually asleep yet.  
  
Thirty-two hours later, they fucked in John’s bedroom, but Sherlock didn’t let John jerk himself off in the end of it. He said he had done research on blow jobs. At John’s laptop. He said he was quite sure John would find the procedure acceptable and besides, John liked his mouth. It was all true. But John would certainly clear the history on his laptop later.  
  
There was another day. And another day. And another day, and then Lestrade texted them about a case and Sherlock said they could as well take it. He barely had any symptoms now. John followed him to the crime scene where a young man had been ran over by what appeared to have been a lawnmower. Sherlock was brilliant and John was in a very bad mood and refused to wonder why. But he realised it wasn’t about the lawnmower.  
  
They got home very late in the evening. They had tea, sitting on the sofa, and he took Sherlock’s hand, because it was right there. Then he realised he probably shouldn’t have done that. But Sherlock just glanced at him and entangled their fingers.  
  
He cleared his throat. “Sherlock, I don’t know how to say…”  
  
Sherlock squeezed his hand. “It’s okay.”


End file.
